


Polling Place

by tikistitch



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos registers to vote in Night Vale as the town prepares for the annual Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance parade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Polling Place (Part 1 of 2)  
 **Fandom:** Welcome to Night Vale  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Cecil/Carlos  
 **Warnings:** Cursing.  
 **Word Count:**   
**Summary:** Carlos registers to vote in Night Vale as the town prepares for the annual Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance parade.  
 **Notes:** At the end.

 

Chapter 1

 

“You really didn’t need to accompany me today,” said Carlos as Cecil hopped into the passenger seat of his late model hybrid sports coupe. “Although your presence is appreciated,” he was quick to add. 

“Our laws can appear a little … _arcane_ to outsiders.”

“Night Vale? _Arcane?_ ” laughed Carlos. 

Cecil smiled fondly at his flawless companion as they roared out of the WTNV parking lot. “You’re determined to change your registration?” he asked hopefully.

Carlos puffed out his chest. “I feel it is my scientific duty to vote in the upcoming Night Vale mayoral race.”

“Due to Mayor Winchell's recent spate of proclamations, the voter registration procedures have changed dramatically in recent weeks,” Cecil explained. 

Carlos flashed that little smile that made Cecil’s stomach launch into that funny loop-the-loop thing it seemed to do when he was either in close proximity to Carlos, daydreaming about Carlos, writing iambic pentameter dedicated to Carlos’s perfect hair, or tracing his fingers over the slightly airbrushed features of the 8x10 glossy photo of Carlos he now kept on his desk. 

“Thank you by the way for giving me that head shot from your scientific portfolio,” Cecil told Carlos. “It’s very glamorous.”

In reply, Carlos only sighed. Cecil glanced over and noticed that Carlos's perfect features had grown wistful. “Are you all right?” he asked, his third eye fluttering open with concern. He perceived that Carlos’s aura was fizzling with dissatisfaction. 

The scientist sighed softly, strong jawline flicking slightly in agitation. “The paper I submitted to _The Scientific Journal of Science_ was rejected,” he confessed, a kind of moroseness creeping into his silken voice. 

“How could they reject you?” Cecil stormed, the livid markings on his arms roiling with inchoate fury at anyone who did not esteem his beloved scientist to an appropriate degree. “Your headshot was flawless.”

“Well, some don’t agree with my theories regarding various phenomena I’ve encountered here. I had intended to submit an abstract regarding my recent research to the International Scientific Conference in Svitz next month. But now….” He shook his head, dark curls blowing fetchingly in the wind.

“Svitz?” asked Cecil, feeling a shiver run down his spine and then back up again until it crested on the top of his head. “Um. Will you be rolling down the hill?”

“That is the national pastime, isn't it? It is a country of rolling hills!”

Cecil's mood darkened, wondering in whose company Carlos was planning on rolling down the Svitz hills. “I will eviscerate them in their sleep,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Oh, look up there!” he declared, pointing towards the sky. “Was there supposed to be a parade today? I thought the Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance wasn't until next Tuesday.”

The blue helicopter buzzed overhead, and then suddenly dropped down, plunging like a rotten fruit falling from a tree. Carlos brought his car skidding to a halt as the copter set down directly in front of them, smack in the middle of the roadway, blades whirring ominously in the steaming air.

Carlos leaned over towards Cecil, who nearly jumped out of his skin at such sudden scientific proximity, and popped open the glove compartment. He dug around inside. “Random papers check,” he told Cecil, who was looking baffled.

“What?”

“Random papers check. They stop me all the time,” said Carlos. The rotating blades slowed and stopped.

“Where you headed in such a hurry, _boy_?” asked the big, bull-necked secret policeman who had just been birthed from the helicopter's womb-like side door. 

“We were just out for a drive,” said Carlos.

The secret policeman pressed his ample belly to Carlos’s car. “I’m gonna need to see your license and registration, as well as your supplication to the mighty eagle god, Garuda.”

While Cecil watched, slightly puzzled by this all (the sheriff’s secret police rarely pulled over citizens unless they were out on a child-snatching errand or collecting donations for the secret policeman’s not-so-benevolent-in-fact-kind-of-malignant fund), Carlos handed over the documents. “It should all be in order, officer,” Carlos told the portly cop.

The secret policeman flourished the paperwork, never taking his eye off Carlos. “That’s one mighty fine lab coat you’re wearin’ there, boy. Mighty fine.”

“Thank you. It’s one hundred percent vicuña.”

“You ain't from around these parts.” It sounded like an accusation. Which is exactly what it was.

“I just came from my laboratory.”

“No. I mean, you weren’t born here, were you?”

Carlos pretended to look around. “In the middle of the highway? No.” 

The officer bristled. “I ain’t got time for your kind,” the officer sneered, jamming the papers back in Carlos's face.

“What kind is that?” asked Cecil.

The cop leaned over, trying to appear menacing. “You scientists. Coming here from outside. Bringing your methodologies, and your inductive reasoning. You think you’re so high and mighty, strutting around with your empiricism.”

“Am I free to go?” asked Carlos, who was already starting the engine.

“You just watch yourself,” sniffed the secret policeman. He waddled back to the helicopter, which jerked aloft and disappeared into the sky.

“What a fascist asshole!” sputtered Cecil as they resumed their drive to City Hall. “The Sheriff's secret police usually don't interfere with the citizenry unless we're actively crafting wax fruit. Which of course, is strictly forbidden.”

“I’m used to this,” said Carlos, cramming his paperwork back in the glove compartment. “Unfortunately, it's just one of those things a scientist has to put up with.”

Cecil stared at him, mostly because he liked staring at Carlos (and it was not creepy at all) but also partly because he was curious. “Do you come from a family of scientists?”

“No, actually. My parents were originally from Hispaniola. My family owned a humble business, designing, manufacturing and mass-marketing whirligigs to big box retailers.”

“Whirligigs?” 

Carlos grew wistful. “Yes, it is the national pastime in Hispaniola.” He peered over his fashionable aviator shades at Cecil. “Along with composing sad banjo music.”

“Sad banjo music?” asked Cecil, who was feeling very much like an echo just lately. “Sad banjo music.”

“Of course. I know many tragic banjo ballads. The songs of my people.” And here Carlos wiped a tear.

Concerned, Cecil offered Carlos a handkerchief.

“But they were forced to flee when their whirligigs became politically unpopular,” relate Carlos, dabbing his eyes. “Alas, it was a common story in the old country.”

“I’m sorry. Um. Maybe some time you could play me a, you know, like, sad banjo number?” said Cecil, who was partly sympathetic but also eternally crafting ways of hanging out more with Carlos.

Carlos’s dark eyes brightened. “Oh! I would be most pleased to show you my banjo!”

Cecil’s heart went thumpity-thump.

 

They arrived at City Hall soon afterwards, finding the only additional impediment to their progress the annual migration of the Portuguese Men o' War across the scrublands. As they stopped to watch the pink- and muave-tentacled cnidarians undulate their way over the two lane blacktop, Cecil tentatively leaned over and rested his head on Carlos's shoulder, inhaling deeply of the intoxicating scent of agar substrata and sparking Bunsen burners. Carlos smiled and twined his hand with Cecil's, rubbing a dark thumb over the tendrils tattooed to the back of Cecil's wrist. It was almost a disappointment (to Cecil at least) when the last bluebottle wafted into the distance.

Carlos found a convenient parking spot near City Hall, thanks to Cecil's Somewhat Professional Press hang tag, and, after bribing the ferryman with ancient Roman and Carthaginian coins and colorful shirt buttons, they were transported across the eel-filled moat and into the hallowed corridors of Night Vale City Hall. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, a hollow, lonely sound.

Grabbing torches from the sconces that dotted the drafty stone walls in the entryway, Cecil and Carlos headed towards the Registrar's office, which was located down a dim and moss-studded staircase. 

“State your name,” the clerk demanded, straightening his powdered wig, and licking the tip of his quill pen. 

“This is Carlos the scientist!” Cecil interrupted. “Don't you recognize Night Vale's most beloved outsider?” Carlos placed a hand on his friend's arm, shushing him.

“Primary residence?” intoned the clerk.

“I live in the attic above my scientific laboratory, right next to Big Rico's pizza.”

“How long at this address?”

Carlos glanced at Cecil, who swooned. “One year.”

“Occupation?”

“Scientist!” chorused both Cecil and Carlos. Cecil blushed, pale face tinting pink at his cheeks.

“Marital status?”

“Single,” said Carlos. Cecil glanced at him. Had he detected a note of regret?

The clerk looked between them, staring for an uncomfortably long time at Cecil, who flushed again. “ _Single_?” he prodded.

“Single,” sighed Carlos.

The clerk scratched on his parchment. “Why were you born?” he droned.

Carlos blinked, long eyelashes fluttering in surprise, which nearly caused Cecil an embolism. “Um, _why_? Did you want a recap of the biological principles involved?”

The clerk emitted a small, frustrated snort. “Why were you born? Come on now, we need to know your epistemological affiliation. Why was your soul launched into the noxious void that comprises existence? Was it all pre-planned? Are you a mindless slave to fate?”

“Ah,” said Carlos. “I believe it was happenstance.”

“Happenstance?” asked the clerk, who was now baffled as to which check box to tick.

“Why, yes,” said Carlos, who began to warm to the topic. “My existence is due to a fortuitous co-mingling of haploid DNA strands.”

“Very fortuitous,” sighed Cecil.

“A completely non-reproducible moment, due to quantum uncertainty.”

“I'll put you down as an Empiricist,” concluded the clerk, his pen scratching parchment as he scratched a mark in the ticky-box. “Height? In stocking feet.”

Carlos cast a puzzled glance at Cecil, but decided not to further antagonize the clerk by asking pesky questions. “Um, five feet, eleven and a half, with no shoes.”

The clerk nodded. “Now, for the declaration. Do you solemnly declare that you actually and indubitably do exist, and are not simply a figment of all our fevered imaginations?”

“I do,” said Carlos, and Cecil breathed a sigh of relief.

The clerk opened a squeaking desk drawer and extracted an ancient box. He opened it, revealing a stamp pad and a stamp with a really big check mark on it. He stamped the documents several times, up and down and all around. And then he had Carlos hold out his hand for a stamp, and Cecil too, just for good measure. Cecil held up his hand to the dim light that filtered in from god knows where, vowing right then and there to preserve this moment with another tattoo.

The clerk shuffled the papers with palsied hands. “These will need to go to Mayor Winchell for final approval.”

“All right,” said Carlos, who stood up along with Cecil. “When will I receive my voter ID card?”

“On the next light of the midsummer moon,” said the clerk, “the card will appear mysteriously in the midst of the fairy circle in your back yard. Unless you wanna pay six bucks for Priority Mail?”

 

Cecil trod carefully through Carlos's laboratory. He had been there before, on their fifth date, and also on their eighth and ninth. It was all bright and shiny and modern and so full of science-y goodness, with racks of gleaming test tubes and sparkling beakers and a Jacob's ladder fizzling in the background. 

But there was one place in particular he had not been to yet....

“This way,” said Carlos, indicating a side door that opened to a narrow staircase. 

Cecil swallowed hard, and followed him. 

“Cecil?”

“Yes?” gasped Cecil. 

Carlos paused on the stairway, looking down. “Why do you suppose there's a height requirement for voting?”

“A height requirement?”

“Well, the clerk asked me how tall I was, and there was also a sign on his desk marked with an arrow that said, _'You must be this tall to vote.'_ ”

“Oh. I didn't notice. As I said, the Mayor has just offered several edicts and none of the press have been able to question her about it. Since, you know, the whole whisking away thing that tends to happen at the end of her press conferences.”

“Well, if you hear anything let me know. Ah, here we are,” he added, as he threw open the door at the top of the stairs and entered the secret, sacred place.

_Carlos's bedroom._

Cecil looked around, desperately trying not to look like he was looking around. In contrast to the stark, stainless steel lines of the laboratory, the room was a little cramped and untidy. Carlos hadn't even bothered to make his bed, as the sheets were rumpled. Cecil shivered, his mind straying to various activities that could cause the sheets to get all tangled up like that.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” muttered Carlos, his voice muffled as he had stuck his head into a cluttered closet, leaning over, giving Cecil a very nice view of his assets. Cecil glanced around, realizing, as there were no other chairs visible, that Carlos intended for him to sit _on his bed._ Holding his breath, he sat down. It was terribly soft. And springy.

Brushing aside his spare lab coat and several whirligigs that also shared closet space, Carlos emerged holding a stringed musical instrument. “Here it is. Now, what would you like to hear?” he asked, pulling on the strap. And then Cecil realized that when Carlos had invited him up to see his banjo, he had really meant he wanted to show Cecil his banjo.

Cecil sagged slightly. “Um. Whatever you want to play, I guess.”

“We Hispaniolistas specialize in epic balladry!” Carlos told him proudly as he tuned the instrument. His fingers were long and dextrous. 

“Well, then, an epic ballad.” Cecil stretched himself out on the bed, feeling his heart begin to beat in a syncopated rhythm. He plucked at the coverlet and was stunned to find a single dark strand of hair from Carlos's perfect head snared there. He absent-mindedly twined it around and around his finger. It felt nice, like he had a sweet little memento of Carlos. 

“This is the tragic story of a young maiden who misplaced the twist tie from her fresh loaf of bread,” said Carlos, tuning up his banjo. He steeled himself, and began to play. At first, it was slow and mournful, truly the saddest banjo music Cecil had ever experienced (not that he'd experienced a whole lot of banjo music). But then inexorably, Carlos's fingers seemed to pick up a life of their own, and the music became more and more lively. Cecil began to bounce his head in time to the cheerful beat. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Carlos, suddenly stopping, and staring at his betraying fingers. “That seems to happen lately. I'm not certain what's going on. Let's try again.” 

To Cecil's delight, Carlos began to play again, and then he sang....

_Mucho gusto._  
¿Dónde hay un buen restaurante?  
La cuchara esta picante  
No comprendo.   
Me he perdido.... 

“That's beautiful, Carlos. Is this about how she lost the twist tie?

“Oh, no! This verse is about her maternal grandmother, and how she made money in a home marketing campaign. The song is a little bit long.”

“That's all right!” Cecil assured him brightly. As Carlos resumed singing, Cecil listened contentedly for a while to Carlos's oaky voice, imagining what would happen when the song at last ended, and Cecil tugged his scientist down on the bed next to him, and various other things that would inevitably ensue. 

The song went on. And on. And on. And then on some more. Cecil snuck a glance at his watch, sadly remembering that timepieces didn’t work in Night Vale. At any rate, Carlos had been singing a good long time. Cecil wondered if it would be polite to interrupt, or at least suggest they take a break and order pizza, or maybe indulge in some heavy petting. He lowered his head into his arms, as time stretched out.

He awoke with a start, a line of drool dripping down the side of his mouth, when Carlos shook him. 

“I think it's time for your radio program,” said Carlos helpfully. 

“Waarrrrgh?” said Cecil, hair flopping into his eyes.

“Your intern called.”

“Wait. The intern? The one who was sucked into the infinite void last week?”

“The other one. I think. He said there was some kind of big protest going on. A huge protest!” Cecil didn’t think he had ever seen Carlos look quite so excited. Cecil’s third eye opened a sleepy crack, and he could tell Carlos’s aura was pinging. Cecil thought his scientist looked very much like someone needed to kiss him, and quickly. He slipped off the bed and sidled up to Carlos.

Carlos broke into a smile, teeth in perfect alignment. Cecil drew nearer, fluttering his eyes closed, leaning slightly closer, into Carlos's space. 

“I’m going down there to see,” Carlos told him. “Would you like a ride to the station?” 

“I … suppose so,” said Cecil. He stepped back as Carlos bustled past him, berating himself for chickening out on the attempt at lip-lock.

 

“The mayor has issued several directives while you were out,” the other intern (the one who hadn't been sucked into the void) told Cecil when he arrived back at the studio. “She just held a press conference. The mayor talked to journalists, and then all were whisked away in a puff of mauve smoke.”

“Mauve smoke? Is the glow cloud involved in this too?”

“We called the glow cloud's office. The mighty glow cloud has no comment, although it did rain down a torrent of stoats.”

“What did the mayor say before she was whisked away?”

The other intern handed Cecil a rather thick stack of papers, and they started striding purposefully towards the broadcast booth. Because, really, there was no other way to stride towards the broadcast booth. “Do we have any word from the planning committee regarding the upcoming Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance?” he asked the other intern.

“Here you go.” The other intern (the one that hadn't been sucked into the void) offered Cecil yet more papers. “There will be the usual parade, followed by an address by the mayor regarding the upcoming election. Also, there have been more reports from around town regarding the Tiny Purple Fairy.” 

“Yes. Any information about it?

“It's reported to be of a small stature. And sort of a periwinkle.”

“Good.” There had been incidents of the Tiny Purple Fairy appearing before various residents, but little was known about its exact purposes or whether it was more of a plum or violet. Cecil was still leafing through his reports when he sat down. The other intern whisked away to fetch him coffee. Because, frankly, he sure needed it.

Cecil donned his headphones. The red light went on. “Sometimes life is like a bowl of cherries that have been sitting out in the sun, gone rotten and desiccated, with a lot of those strange little insects that you think are gnats but don't really know what to call them hovering around with nebulous intent. Welcome to Night Vale.

“This just in from Mayor Pamela Winchell, who evidently issued a number of new proclamations before vanishing in a puff of mauve smoke that may or may not be attributable to the glow cloud: lying or falsification on your voter registration forms is now punishable by swift and permanent banishment from the environs of Night Vale. This is just one of the recent directives issued with the intent to tighten voter registration. When asked why this was necessary, the mayor began to yodel enthusiastically.”

“And now a word from our sponsor....” Cecil went to a pre-recorded tape. He had put a hand down on his desk and had it come up covered in a sticky, green-ish goo, which had then gotten all over his favorite sweater vest. Obviously, management had been scurrying around in his booth after hours again. Cursing to himself, he got up to visit the men's room to try and wash out the stain before it set, only to run into an intern.

“Cecil!” The intern's face was flushed.

Cecil paused. This wasn't the intern who had been sucked into the faceless void. And it wasn't the _other_ intern either. “What happened to the other intern?”

“He happened to catch a glimpse Management before they slithered back into their office,” the other other intern whispered. They both looked around nervously. “He's now wracked with despair, and is out back weaving flower crowns for the rest of the staff.”

“Flower crowns?”

“They're the latest thing.”

“But he was supposed to bring my coffee!” Cecil protested peevishly.

“We've received news that the powers that going to be are cracking down on the giant protest in front of City Hall!”

Cecil's mind reeled. “What? No!”

 

Pushing his flower crown back out of his eyes, Cecil slammed on the brakes in front of City Hall. The show today had turned into a nightmare. Time had stretched out, as it tended to do in Night Vale, until the end of his broadcast, when he could finally rush out to warn Carlos about the upcoming crackdown on the protestors. And he had never gotten to the men's room to wash the goo off his sweater vest, so on top of everything else, he had had to stop of at his dry cleaners, which fortunately was running a special on removing stains attributable to Yog-Sothoth and any related mythos.

He saw to his chagrin that Carlos was not only present, but actually holding a picket sign. Oddly enough, though, Cecil could divine no other evidence of a protest of any kind. 

He spotted something moving on the sidewalk next to Carlos, and thought for a moment that his beloved scientist had perhaps stepped on an anthill, as there were dozens of tiny figures milling to and fro. And then it hit him.

Cecil's heart stopped. It was the tiny people from below the pin retrieval area of lane five of the bowling alley

“Cecil!” said Carlos, waving cheerily. “You've come to the protest! We have a really great turnout.” Carlos extended a hand, indicating the roiling mass of inch-high protestors.

“Carlos,” hissed Cecil, pulling him aside. “Do I need to remind you that these tiny people almost killed you?” His heart trembled at the terrible memory.

“Yes, but Cecil, I think they are just misunderstood!”

Cecil was so agitated he nearly lost his flower crown. “They shot you! They killed the Apache Tracker! Even though he was a racist and that stupid headdress had to go, they murdered him!”

“Yes, but think about it from their perspective! How little they’ve seen, living their tiny lives under the pin retrieval area in lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade. What do they know of the human race, other than the fact that we are awfully fond of hurling giant-sized (to their perspective) heavy balls down highly polished wooden floors, causing a set of high towers (as the bowling pins are greater in height than all but their highest spires) to topple over, resulting in an immense booming noise, greater perhaps than the noise that accompanied the creation of the known universe! How would they know of our art, our science, our twenty-seven flavors of gourmet mustard available at the Ralph’s condiment aisle?”

“Carlos-“

But his friend had warmed to the topic. “How would they know we are not simply warriors, but also friends, comrades, lovers?”

That stopped Cecil on the dot, his mouth hanging open, as his neural synapses seemed to all fire simultaneously when Carlos enunciated the word, “lover.” “Uhhhh,” he answered. With some effort, he attempted to reboot his central nervous system. “So, you’ve been communicating with them?”

“I have been attempting to learn their language! It’s difficult, as it sounds to our ears like a series of squeaks. However, if you slow it down you can begin to make sense of it. Let me show you.” Carlos brought out a tape recorder. He clicked on play. What emitted was a terrible sound, like a beluga whale moaning in great annoyance.

Cecil brought his hands to his ears. “That sounds like an annoyed beluga whale!”

“Yes! So you see, by listening to this tape, I have divined that they were not intending to kill me as a show of force.”

“Really?”

“No! Not at all. They meant to kill me for food!”

“They were going to kill you and … and eat you?”

“Yes, they said my haunches are most impressive! Especially from a low angle.”

Cecil leaned over and took a look. He shrugged. The tiny people had a point there. “Your haunches are resplendent, Carlos. I suppose upon that we can agree.”

Carlos grinned, and Cecil’s heart fluttered with the wonderfulness of wonder. Though he was still quite pissed at the tiny people, whatever their motivations.

A blue helicopter streaked out of the sky, dropping to the ground like a lump of rotting meat, blowing protest signs and Carlos's perfect hair.

Cecil tugged on Carlos's arm. “Carlos, we need to get out of here! The government is planning to crack down on the giant protest … of the tiny people.”

“Then I will stand fast with my comrades!” Carlos vowed. “This is just like back home in Hispaniola! But we will not be moved.”

The blue helicopter had come in for a landing, and the same bull-necked Sheriff's secret policeman emerged as before. “What do you think you're doin', boy?” he sneered.

“We are protesting!” answered Carlos, perhaps unnecessarily.

“What exactly are you protesting,” Cecil asked, as he'd completely forgotten.

“Well,” Carlos admitted, “I'm not exactly certain, but almost certainly very, very important!”

“You are in violation of a whole passel of city ordinances right now, I'll have you know,” said the cop.

“He's engaging in his lawful right to protest,” Cecil interjected. Not that he thought that jumping into the middle of this like an addled tree frog was a great idea, but he was more than a little annoyed that the cop would challenge Carlos.

“Not in my municipality!” threatened the officer.

“Yeah?” said Cecil, who was feeling rather uncharacteristically sassy. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

“I'm gonna bring out the hose!”

“We will not be moved!” Carlos vowed as the officer stamped back towards the helicopter. 

“You sure we shouldn't, you know...?” asked Cecil.

“He can't frighten us away. Stand tall....” He looked at his fellow protesters, who were clustered around his ankles. “Um, well, you know what I mean.”

The Sheriff's secret policeman had returned, dragging back a length of thin green hose and then, with a look of determination on his face, yelled, “Turn it on!”

The hose emitted a thin stream of water, which successfully soaked Carlos's Converse sneakers.

“OK,” said Cecil, after a moment. “I see what you're trying to do here, but that's a garden hose.”

“The fire department is all on parade for the Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance,” the secret policeman pouted.

Cecil rolled his eyes. “Will you just go away?” 

“You don't need to be abusive!” snorted the cop. He turned and, as he coiled up the green garden hose, looked back to sneer, “I'll be back!” And then he mounted the blue helicopter, and was swiftly gone, like a lump of coal, if a lump of coal were ever to fly off into the sky.

“Cecil, you were brilliant!” gushed Carlos. “We couldn't have done it without you.”

“Aw,” said Cecil, who may have blushed.

“What do you say we go back to the lab? We can conduct experiments?”

Cecil felt his heart soar, exactly not like a stationary lump of coal.

 

_¿Dónde está mi coche?_  
¡Cuánto pelo tienes!   
¡Cuántas arañas!  
¿Cuántos dólares tiene el muchacho?  
Mi amiga es muy inteligente.  
¿Vas al supermercado?— le preguntó.   
No sé. 

Cecil sat on Carlos's bed, futzing with a whirligig in the shape of several dwarfs taking pickaxes to a portabella mushroom. Carlos had been utterly giddy with the success of his protest movement, and so when they returned to the lab, had offered to sing Cecil a sad Hispaniolista ballad about an unfortunate young woman who let her discount coupons all expire.

That had been … well, many, many stanzas ago. 

“Carlos, what do you suppose the tiny people are protesting about.” He was interrupting, sure, but he supposed it was probably slightly less impolite than dozing off again during the part where the sad heroine's maternal grandfather filed his real estate taxes.

“I don't know.” Carlos sat down his banjo, looking wistful. “I need to do more work in translating their language. It's a little eccentric. For example, I have found at least sixty-three expressions that mean, 'Ouch! You're standing on my foot.'” 

“That's interesting,” said Cecil. He felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket and pulled it out, irritated at the interruption. He sighed as he read the text from the other other intern. “I need to get back to the station. The mayor has just appeared on television to announce a new pruning of the voter rosters.”

“Should we tune in?” Carlos asked. “There's a television down in my laboratory.”

“No, I mean she appeared on a television. It was in the living room of Hortense Baumgardtener, and boy was she peeved, because they were just sitting down to dinner.”

“I thought your mayor was stepping down?”

“She did. And then she reached the bottom of the stairs.”

Cecil pursed his lips. “That's weird.”

“Yeah,” Cecil agreed. “Mayor Winchell rarely walks anywhere, she usually just appears.” 

Carlos appeared to think. That's what scientists did, Cecil had found. His brow furrowed in an attractive manner. “So if she's purging the voter roster, that means some citizens will be disenfranchised.”

“It's a horrifying development. Perhaps even worse than the onerous decision to change the Arby's sign from red to lime green. The people of Night Vale cherish their precious right to vote their conscience, and then be taken away to the abandoned mine shaft at the edge of town when they vote incorrectly!”

“I've heard they have HBO and free WiFi,” said Carlos, his eyes sparkling. “Wait, Cecil, Eureka!”

Cecil raised his arm and sniffed underneath. “I took a shower this morning.”

“No, I just thought of something. This may be a breakthrough in understanding the language of the tiny people.” He pulled out his tape recorder and played it for a few seconds. Suddenly, the air was pierced by something that sounded like the moaning of tortured souls condemned to an eternity without Pinkberry. 

“Turn that off, Carlos!” Cecil pleaded.

Carlos switched off the tape. “Cecil! I think I know what they're protesting about.”

“Their eardrums are bleeding?” Cecil knocked at the side of his own head.

“No! They want their HBO! Or the equivalent premium channels. I'll be that in their tiny universe below lane five, they only have basic cable.”

“Well, that's a theory, Carlos. I think-”

But whatever Cecil thought was lost to the ages, because at that exact moment, the glass in Carlos's window shattered as a bevy of the Sheriff's secret police suddenly rappelled in to Carlos's apartment.

“We got you now,” said the very annoying bull-necked Sheriff's secret policeman, whose identity wasn't terribly well hidden by his balaclava. He was holding Carlos by the scruff of his lab coat, knocking his flower crown all askew.

“What's the meaning of this?” sputtered Cecil.

“We caught your boy lying on his voter application.”

“That's not possible!” Carlos protested. “I truthfully answered every question.”

“You checked the ticky-box for Empiricism, boy. And I have it on good authority that you're involved in a protest movement, which would categorize your epistemological view as an Idealism. And that there is punishable by by being spirited away to an undisclosed location.”

“Yes. The abandoned mine shaft,” sighed Cecil.

The black-clad Sheriff's secret policemen all looked at each other in apparent confusion. “How the Sam Hill do you know that? That location is undisclosed.”

“You have Wi-Fi. People have been updating their Facebook pages.”

“God damn those social networkers!” He turned to the other cops. “Folks, let's get this evidentiary poseur out of here.”

“I'll get you out, Carlos, don't worry!” Cecil promised as they prepared to drag his beloved scientist away to parts unknown, even thought it was the abandoned mine shaft.

“It's all right, now I can catch up on _Girls_ ,” Carlos assured him as the secret policemen whisked him out the window.

And Cecil was left to stand amidst the broken glass, alone like that last tuft of dandelion that doesn't blow away when you puff air at it.

 

Cecil carried his miserable burden of regret back to the studio. The other other intern was there (not the one who had been sucked into the faceless void, but not the other one, either). Amidst news of a fire sale at Louie's music shop (all oil fires were 20% off, sacred fires 30% off, and fires in the loins were half off) and public service announcements to remember not to look eternal scouts in the eye (really, how many times did they have to tell people about this), Cecil felt grave misgivings.

“I don't know what to do about Carlos,” he confessed to the other intern (not the one … well, _you know_ ) as he washed his hands in the mens room. He petted Khoshekh the cat, who was wearing an adorable, tiny flower crown, as were all of his kittens.

The other intern didn't reply, as he was sitting on the sink, busily making more flower crowns, his eyes staring vacantly into the eternal nothingness.

“I mean,” Cecil continued, “he's planning on attending a scientific conference in Svitz, and he might be rolling down the hills with someone else!” He bit his bottom lip with consternation, his odd, somewhat pointed teeth drawing tiny specks of blood. 

The intern finished what he was doing and grabbed Cecil's hand, which still had the strand of hair he'd plucked from Carlos's bed wound around it, as Cecil couldn't bring himself to remove it. Before Cecil could protest, the intern deftly began to weave some tiny purple bittersweet nightshade and black swallowwort flowers into the hair and around his finger. 

“Also, where are you getting all those flowers?” he asked the other intern, admiring his hand, as it was really nice work, even if it was annoying. “I mean, this stuff is indigenous to the mid-Atlantic.”

But the other intern did not answer, and instead began weaving a very fashionable looking flower belt and suspenders.

The _other_ other intern intercepted Cecil on the way back to the broadcast booth. “You have a visitor,” she told him mysteriously. Cecil was suddenly alert with anticipation, but his hopes were dashed when he returned to his booth to spy that the visitor sitting there was not wearing that all-too-familiar lab coat. 

The visitor turned his ancient, be-wigged head, and Cecil realized it was none other than the officious clerk from when Carlos had filled out his voter registry application.

“You!” sputtered Cecil, who was quite suddenly not his usually glib self in the face of this reminder of his vanished scientist. 

The clerk looked down at himself, clutching both hands over his silver-tipped cane. “It could be me. Unless of course it's somebody else,” he answered, his voice soft and dry as vellum.

“You got Carlos into a lot of trouble!”

“I've come to return this application to you,” the clerk told him, proffering the well-stamped piece of paper. It had been folded and folded and re-folded, like some freakish piece of origami. “I believe the wrong ticky-box was checked.”

Cecil grabbed the papers away from the clerk. “This is too little too late! Carlos has already been whisked away to the undisclosed location.”

“The abandoned mine shaft?” asked the clerk, painfully rising to his feet. “I've heard they have free Wi-Fi.”

“Yes, but Carlos says it's only available in the lobby.”

“The boy has strength. He will see it through.” 

“Why are you returning this to me?” 

“After you boys left my office the other night, the mayor herself crawled in through the air conditioning vent and snatched all of my voter applications. All of them! Even after I’d applied all my stamps.”

“Did you confront her about it?”

The old clerk sighed and readjusted his powdered wig. “She just giggled, and then vanished in a puff of mauve smoke.”

“She has a habit of doing that.”

“I managed to keep this one application, as I had folded it up to keep my desk level. I believe it is a sign from the angels. Or maybe something like the angels. The mayor is planning something fiendish for the next mayoral election. You need to go investigate!”

“Thank you,” said Cecil. He squinted at the much-folded application. “Uh, is this your gum?” he asked, pointing to the edge.

And with that, the clerk rose. Tottering on his cane, he opened the door and walked right into the closet that was located at one end of Cecil's broadcast studio, shutting the door behind him. “Hey, who turned out the lights?” Cecil heard his muffled voice call out.

Cecil was still brooding about Carlos's sketchy internet access when at last he left the studio, stepping into the perpetually dark parking lot. Also, he wondered if he had time to make his dry cleaners before they closed. He had just reached his car when he felt the prickling at his ankles. He looked down, concerned that perhaps his shoelaces had become untied.

He gasped in horror. 

And then it all went black. Tinged by sort of light heliotrope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Polling Place (Part 2 of 2)  
 **Fandom:** Welcome to Night Vale  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Cecil/Carlos, Mayor Pamela Winchell, Tamika Flynn, various and sundry Sheriff's Secret Police, the people of the city beneath lane five of pin retrieval area, and a couple of completely superfluous OCs.  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. This one lurches abruptly from mildly silly to gleeful incoherence. Sorry. Not sorry.  
 **Word Count:** 7000 (this chapter); 13000 total  
 **Summary:** Carlos registers to vote in Night Vale as the town prepares for the Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance parade.  
 **Notes:** At the end.

 

Chapter 2

 

Cecil awoke to the unmistakable sound of a seven-ten split.

He moaned and tried to move, only to find himself tied down by innumerable thin threads. He grunted and, after redoubling his efforts, managed to break enough of the slender bindings to sit up. 

There was a shrill hub-bub around him. Moaning both from the many tiny stabbing pains in his ankles and sheer frustration, Cecil blinked and looked around. He was in the middle of a town. A vast but tiny town. From where he sat he could see broad avenues no wider than his thigh, and tall spires that barely topped his shoulders.

“You hit me with tranquilizer darts, kidnapped me, and dragged me back to the bowling alley?” Cecil asked the tiny people from the underground city, who now all crowded around him. “If I might editorialize, that's kind of rude.”

The people from the underground city, flourishing miniscule weapons, chattered in their high-pitched voices. Several of them still carried their teeny-tiny picket signs from the giant if nebulous protest.

Cecil crossed his arms. “I really don't understand why you are always upset. Here you have this nice area under the pin retrieval area in lane five – a prime bit of real estate, I might emphasize – and all you can think to do is attack perfectly innocent scientists and their loved ones, although I'll admit the Apache Tracker was kind of a jerk.” 

The people from the underground city continued their mutterings, and it really seemed to Cecil that they agreed about the Apache Tracker, who, though he died heroically, was kind of a racist after all. Frustratingly, the tiny people under the bowling alley, due to their size, spoke in reedy high-pitched voices that were nearly out of the range of his hearing. 

Cecil had a sudden inspiration. Shifting to break a few more of the threads that bound him, he reached for his voice recorder, which, as a reporter, he always kept at his side. “Hello, people under lane five,” he said, pushing the button. He hit fast forward and played it back for the people from the underground city, his voice now chirping and high-pitched.

Suddenly, there was a massive commotion among the people from the underground city. Cecil watched in fascination as several of them grabbed their picket signs and began scrawling a sort of writing on them.

A line of them stepped forward, hoisting their signs high (for them – for Cecil it only came up a handspan). To his surprise, each sign was now painted with a single letter of the alphabet.

_HLLO ENRMS PRSN_

“Cooool,” said Cecil, who couldn't help patting himself on the back. “I'm Cecil,” he spoke into the recorder. “The voice of Night Vale.” It was a little self-important, but he thought it best not to mince words under the circumstances.

He played it on fast forward, and there was another commotion around the signs. 

_WE LSTN 2 WZZZ_

Cecil shrugged. Random numbers people, he thought. Big or the size of a corn flake, they're all alike. “Why are you angry?” he spoke into the device. But then, thinking it over, he amended it to, “Why are you … _concerned_?”

There was a flurry of scribbling on signs, and then much jostling to get into the line. Obviously, this was an issue of some concern for the small citizens.

 _DSIENFRANCHEESIMNT_ the signs read. 

“Cheesy Mints?” Cecil muttered to himself. “That does sound appetizing. I hear they have them on sale this week at Ralphs.” And then the letters rearranged themselves slightly. “Oh! Wait, disenfranchisement? You want to vote?” Realization dawned on Cecil. “I just remembered, I should have picked up my dry cleaning. They close at six.” He checked his watch, forgetting, as he was wont to do, that timepieces did not work in Night Vale or its environs. 

Unfortunately, what to Cecil was simply an unnecessary gesture was to the height-challenged people from the underground city under the bowling alley a declaration of war. Instantly, the protest signs and markers were dropped, and weapons locked and loaded and aimed directly at Cecil's head. 

“Wait, what did I say?” asked Cecil as the first of the volleys were unleashed. “Wait! Stop!” He struggled to flee, remembering too late that his legs were still bound by a network of teeny-tiny ropes. 

Help!” he wailed. 

And suddenly, there was a waft of periwinkle.

Cecil looked around. He was no longer under the bowling alley, but now seemed to be somewhere in the scrublands. 

“Hey dere,” came a deep voice, weathered by beer and nicotine. Cecil turned to face his rescuer: a big, balding man with a prominent beer gut who had somehow squeezed himself into a lavender tutu.

“Who are you?” asked Cecil.

“Dey call me da Tiny Purple Fairy,” the guy answered, scratching his balls.

“What?”

“ _Da Tiny Purple Fairy_ ,” he repeated with a sigh, as if Cecil were slightly stupid.

Cecil scratched his chin. “You're hardly tiny.”

“What? You tink dis outfit makes me look fat?” asked the man, as if deeply offended.

“No, no, sorry!” said Cecil, waving his hands. He was eager not to offend his new acquaintance as he realized the man could be useful, for instance, in picking up his dry cleaning. He was awfully worried about that gooey stain of Management ooze on his favorite sweater vest. “Uh, I was wondering if you could help me?”

“Hey, buddy, didn't I just help you?”

“Yes, you did. But one more thing? My friend, Carlos, has been whisked away to an undisclosed location with really terrible internet access.”

“Whisked away, huh? Lotta dat goin' around. Was he whisked to a _bowlin' alley_?”

“Uh, no, it's actually more of an abandoned mine shaft.”

“Whisked _from_ a bowlin' alley?”

“No.”

“Mebbe whisked t'rough a bowlin' alley?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, den sorry, buddy.”

“Sorry?”

“I only work in bowlin'-related sitchiations. Kinda my job, yanno?” He took out a stubby cigar and lit it.

“But...” Cecil's mind reeled. “Carlos was trying to help the little people! The people from under the bowling alley.”

The Tiny Purple Fairy rolled his eyes. “Dat relationship seems tenuous, dontcha t'ink?”

“They tiny people are the victims of disenfranchisement.”

“Did you say, Cheesy Mints?” asked the Tiny Purple Fairy, licking his lips hungrily as his cigar oozed an acrid smoke.

“Uh. No. Disenfranchisement. I think the mayor is plotting to keep them from voting.”

“Ain't my bidness, mac.”

“She may or may not be under the influence of the Glow Cloud.”

Cecil thought the Tiny Purple Fairy was going to spit out his cigar. “Wait. Da Glow Cloud? Dat dickweed?”

“Yes! Well, maybe.”

The Tiny Purple Fairy's piggy eyes narrowed, darting left and right. “Well, I ain't supposed t'do dis. You unnerstand. But dat guy. Fucking Glow Cloud. Fucking guy.” And with that, he waved his cigar.

Cecil choked.

And suddenly, he was in an undisclosed location (which was actually the abandoned mine shaft outside of town, just off road 800, right before you get to the mile marker, but past those weird floating red blinking lights).

The fairy had plonked him down right in the middle of the lobby. It was nearly deserted. A very bored clerk was snoozing up at the front desk. And then Cecil spotted Carlos – sweet, perfect Carlos – sitting on one of the poorly-upholstered couches, hunched over his laptop. Cecil hastened over to greet him.

“Carlos!”

“Cecil!” said Carlos. “It's so good to see you. The reception in here is terrible! I never get more than two bars.”

“My poor, dear Carlos,” said Cecil, cupping his favorite scientist's face tenderly in his hand. He gasped. Carlos had a black eye. “Are they torturing you?”

Carlos blushed and put a hand through his perfect hair. “Um. No. Actually, I was leaning over to get a Diet Dr. Pepper from the mini bar, and hit my head. Can you believe it, five dollars for bottled water?”

“You are suffering so!” Cecil declared. He wanted to gather Carlos in his arms and then maybe see how quickly he could get Carlos's flannel shirt unbuttoned because he obviously needed medical attention and disrobing was a necessary part of that.

“Would you like a Cheesy Mint?” asked Carlos, offering a small pack to Cecil. Cecil enthusiastically took one, as he suspected, now that he was reunited with his beloved Carlos, that he would need his breath to be fresh within the immediate future.

“How did you find this undisclosed location, anyway?” asked Carlos. “The Sheriff's secret police has blocked all our social networking.”

“Those fiends,” said Cecil, his third eye popping open to glare at the miscreants. “The Tiny Purple Fairy brought me here.”

“The … _what_?”

“It's a long story. I was kidnapped by the tiny people.”

Cecil's dark eyes grew large. “The ones under the pin retrieval area of lane five?”

“Yes. I found out why they were protesting. And then they tried to kill me. I think they wanted to eat me!”

“Oh, it's all right, Cecil. I've been studying their culture while I've been here.” He turned his laptop screen so Cecil could see. The web site was titled, _“The Nimerigar: teeny tiny badass motherfuckers.”_ “You see, from their point of view,” Carlos explained, “it was a mercy killing.”

“What?”

“Yes, it's part of their culture to murder the mentally unstable.”

Cecil started to answer but then glared. “So, they didn't want to eat me?” he asked at last.

“Oh, they would have eaten you. Eventually. Waste not, want not! Your tenderloin meat looks particularly delicious.” 

Cecil stole a glance at his tenderloin, and blushed. He looked back at the web page Carlos was studying. 

Carlos smiled at him, perfect teeth all set to attention. “So, why were the tiny people under the bowling alley protesting?”

“They want to earn the right to vote!”

“They want to vote?” asked Carlos, shutting his laptop and looking puzzled. “That's … weird.”

Cecil stopped short. “Why is that weird?”

“How would that even work, Cecil? I mean, they're too tiny to work the levers of a voting machine, and far too short to place their completed ballots up in the box. Not to mention that the mailed voter pamphlet would be capable of crushing an entire neighborhood. No, I'm afraid that it is all just a pipe dream.” He said this last with great certainty.

Cecil regarded his beloved scientist with more than a smidgen of skepticism. “You don’t think they should vote?”

“Besides, according to my sources, their form of government is incompatible with ours. Did you know, the Nimerigar are traditionally under the rule of a child king?”

“Carlos,” said Cecil, peering over his shoulder to the laptop screen, “you do realize that the source you’re using is Teddy Williams’s Facebook page.”

Carlos slammed the laptop shut. A bit peevishly, Cecil thought.

“Carlos, we obviously need to discuss this in greater depth. But right now, I'm worried about picking up my dry cleaning, so we need to move.”

Cecil and Carlos got up to leave, but were stopped short by an annoyingly familiar voice shouting from across the lobby.

“Where do you think you're going there, boy?”

“Why aren't you out flying your silly azure whirlybird or whatever it is?” Cecil snapped at the bull-necked Sheriff's secret policeman who had just waddled into the lobby of the undisclosed location, along with about a dozen of his men.

“It's a blue helicopter, boy! Don't disrespect mah vehicle!”

“You need to release this man,” said Cecil, waving his hand at Carlos. “He did nothing wrong.”

The cop leaned in, crowding Cecil's space. “He knowingly filed a falsified voter application. That there is unlawful and illicit behavior!”

“No. He did not. The application is no longer on file. I have it right here!” Cecil dramatically pulled the paper the clerk had given him from his pocket. He was faintly hoping that dramatic music would play, or there would at least be an accompaniment of “doop-doop” on some horns, but no such thing happened. 

The cop leaned closer. “Is that chewing gum?” he asked, pointing to the edge of the paper.

“Cecil, how did you get that?” asked Carlos, his eyes wide. Cecil puffed out his chest. 

“This is an illegal banishment,” said Cecil. “You no longer have any evidence!”

“It don't matter!” insisted the cop. “Boy, once you been whisked away, you been whisked away, permanent!”

“Cecil,” whispered Carlos. He had picked up his bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper.

“Yes?”

“Run!” Carlos dropped a Cheesy Mint into his soft drink and aimed it at the Sheriff's secret policeman, who was sprayed by the ensuing gusher of cheesy minty soda.

Carlos and Cecil raced out of the lobby and out into the network of abandoned mining tunnels. “Wow, how did you do that?” Cecil huffed.

“It's all due to the nucleation on the Cheesy Mints!” Carlos explained. And then he went into detail about how aspartame lowered the surface tension of the water, and even though it was all a bit tedious, Cecil fell in love with his scientist all over again.

“So, why do you think Mayor Winchell wants to prevent the tiny people from voting?” Carlos asked. It took Cecil a moment or two to come back to his senses.

“I'm not sure. But it's the Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance, and she's supposed to have an address at the end of the parade that will kick off this year's mayoral race. I say we go and confront her directly!”

“That sounds like a good plan!” said Carlos, who was always up for acting in a rash but heroic manner.

But there was one important piece of his plan that Cecil had not put together. “Uh, do you know which way is out?” asked Cecil when they turned a blind corner and came to a dead end.

“I could probably divine a way out,” Carlos told him, “given adequate research dollars, and a better equipped laboratory. You know the research facilities in this undisclosed location are woefully inadequate!”

“Carlos?”

“Yes?”

Cecil appeared to be summoning up his courage. “Do you still intend to go to this conference in Svitz?”

“The International Scientific Conference?”

Cecil nodded grimly.

“Why, yes, Cecil. Given that my paper is accepted. And that we are able to flee this undisclosed location without being vaporized by the Sheriff's secret police. And that after we escape, we do not suffer further punishment by the no doubt vengeful mayor.”

Cecil bit his lip. “And … you intend to go rolling down the hills?”

To Cecil's surprise, Carlos smiled fondly. “You're still worried about that?”

“I'm not worried!” Cecil insisted. “I'm not worried. I'm … _concened_.”

Suddenly, there were shouts and running footsteps from down the shaft.

“We need to get out of here!” said Cecil. “Tiny Purple Fairy, where are you?”

The Tiny Purple Fairy popped in, wearing a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers instead of a tutu, and clutching a _TV Guide_. “ _Godzilla Versus da Smog Monster_ is gonna be on in five minutes. Whaddya want?”

__“We need to get out of here before we're caught by that Sheriff's secret policeman. He's an asshole!”_ _

__The Tiny Purple Fairy gave a short, frustrated huff. “Buddy, you know da rules. Can't you make dis request vaguely bowlin'-related?”_ _

__“This has nothing to do with bowling!” Carlos insisted._ _

__“I'm da Tiny Purple Fairy,” the fairy pointed out, scratching an armpit. “I only deal in da bowlin' and da bowlin'-related.”_ _

__“You're not even _particularly_ tiny,” insisted Carlos._ _

__“Carlos!” Cecil, who knew about the Tiny Purple Fairy's sensitivity to these kinds of comments, cautioned his friend. But alas, it was too late._ _

__“Eh. Go rescue yourselves. I'm missin' da kaiju,” snorted the Tiny Purple Fairy, who poufed out._ _

__“He was unpleasant,” grumped Carlos, just as the secret policemen arrived._ _

__“All right, boys,” bleated the very unpleasant Sheriff's secret policeman who had just jogged up, puffing and red-faced, along with several of his colleagues. “We're through messing around. Time to toss this scientist into the dog park!”_ _

__“Nooooo!” said Cecil, who impulsively leapt in front of Carlos._ _

__“Whoa, stop right there,” said another secret policeman, who wasn't the really unpleasant one. He stepped forwards. Cecil cringed, squeezing his eyes shut. To his surprise, the cop grabbed Cecil's hand. “Look. Flower ring.”_ _

__“Oooo!” chorused the other secret policemen, clutching their hands over their kevlar-padded hearts._ _

__Cecil peeked over at his own hand. It was true, he was still wearing the ring of delicate little flowers that the other intern had crafted him from tiny petals and a strand of Carlos's perfect hair._ _

__“Isn't this a single strand of his hair that's carefully woven into the ring?” the cop asked._ _

__Cecil nodded sheepishly, and Carlos arched an eyebrow at him._ _

__“Well, they're obviously in _looooove_ ,” the not terribly unpleasant cop concluded. _ _

__“Awwww!” chorused the other secret policeman, much to Cecil's embarrassment, Carlos's bewilderment, and the bull-necked cop's supreme annoyance._ _

__“Sorry, Benjamin,” said the pleasant cop, “but you know how garlands as a relationship signifier outweigh the law under our capricious-but-inviolate ethical system.”_ _

__“Shhhh!” said the bull-necked cop. “I’m a secret policeman! You can’t use my real name.”_ _

__“We need to get to the Day of Nebulously Brooding Intemperance parade!” Carlos told them, stepping forward and acting terribly officious. “We need to confront Mayor Winchell.”_ _

__“Sure, we'll get you a ride on one of the blue helicopters,” the not terribly unpleasant cop told them. The other secret policemen (well, not the unpleasant one, but the other ones) all nodded and beckoned for Cecil and Carlos to follow them._ _

__“Where did you get that ring?” Carlos whispered as they followed the Sheriff's secret policeman to the helicopter landing pad._ _

__“Long story,” muttered Cecil, who was still a little embarrassed._ _

__Carlos stopped and, pulling Cecil to him, gave him a quick kiss, much to the delight of _most_ of the Sheriff's secret policemen._ _

__Despite his reporter's instincts, Cecil didn't remember a whole lot about the ride in the blue helicopter. The cops occupied themselves with the Guns N' Roses pinball game over in the corner, while Carlos held his hand and the copter gently swayed, and the mysterious entity tangled in the chandelier overhead twined its limbs in the candelabra and silently watched over everything._ _

__The blue helicopter set down right in the middle of the parade route, scattering terrified waves of spectators in every direction._ _

__“Come this way,” Cecil urged, pointing up towards the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. “The mayor's press conference will be held at the end of the parade route.”_ _

__“Wait, Cecil,” Carlos cautioned. “Do you see what I see?” He pointed down towards the Arby's parking lot._ _

__“Our first date,” swooned Cecil._ _

__“Well, yes, that,” said Carlos, “but look at the Dr. Pepper float!”_ _

__Cecil turned his attention to a vast float made mostly of delicate flower petals, tissue paper and remaindered automatic weapons, advertising the tasty carbonated beverages. There was a shape like a shade moving underneath it. Since this was a rather common occurrence in Night Vale, Cecil hadn't given it a second glance, but now he paid attention._ _

__“It's the tiny people from the underground city!” said Cecil._ _

__“And they are packing small containers of Cheesy Mints!” Carlos noted, using his scientific powers of observation. “You know what this means?”_ _

__“They're having a sale on Cheesy Mints at the Ralphs!” said Cecil excitedly._ _

__Carlos took a deep breath. “Cecil, I think they are planning to drop the Cheesy Mints into the large container of Dr. Pepper on the float, thus causing a great geyser of soda, which will disrupt Mayor Winchell's address.”_ _

__Cecil blinked. “Carlos, what kind of oddball conspiracy theory are you spouting now?”_ _

__Carlos sighed. “Let’s … just get up to the bowling alley.”_ _

__Cecil and Carlos began to move, but were soon intercepted by a pair of familiar faces._ _

__“Cecil!” said the _other_ other intern as the other intern slipped a flower crown onto Carlos’s head. “Have you guys seen the other intern?”_ _

__“ _He’s_ the other intern,” Cecil scolded, pointing to the intern who was now weaving a fashionable flower bracelet._ _

__“No, the one who was sucked into the void?”_ _

__“I thought _that_ intern was sucked into the infinite void?”_ _

__“Yes, but we were supposed to meet him here.”_ _

__Cecil stared at him for a long moment. “Oh. Well, you could follow us up to the bowling alley. We’re trying to stop an inter-dimensional conspiracy to corrupt the voting process in Night Vale. Also, I still need to pick up my dry cleaning.”_ _

__“Come along, Cecil!” urged Carlos. “The mayor is starting to speak.”_ _

__“Oh,” said Cecil as they hurried along towards the end of the parade route. “Has the mayor always been quite that shade of mauve?”_ _

__“She is looking terribly purple,” Carlos concurred. “And wasn’t that a stoat dropping from the sleeve of her ceremonial gown?”_ _

__The mayor was conducting a ceremony honoring Tamika Flynn and several other children for successfully completing the Summer Reading Program. The snarling children were being held behind razor wire._ _

__Tamika was standing beside the podium, popping her gum. She was being overseen by two large guards holding long electrified poles. She growled ferociously at them as the mayor's annoying assistant, Trish Hidge, chucked her a medal for writing a book report on _Cry, the Beloved Country_. Tamika snapped, and Trish Hidge stepped back, grabbing some hand sanitizer from her purse and rubbing it on her hands and face. _ _

__“We must confront the mayor,” vowed Carlos. “Before the tiny people get here.”_ _

__“Carlos! Wait!” said Cecil, but the scientist would not be dissuaded. He strode up to the dais, waving his voter registration application._ _

__“Mayor Winchell,” Carlos boomed, his voice especially oaky today._ _

__Several Night Vale residents near the front rows swooned. “He looks even better than his glossy head shot,” someone whispered. Cecil smiled proudly, though he vowed to hunt down that person in their sleep._ _

__“Why are you stripping the voting rolls!” Carlos was demanding. “Night Vale demands to know!”_ _

__The mayor glared at Carlos, her eyes a lurid shade of violet. “What I do with voter registration is my own business,” she boomed in a voice that shattered eyeglasses and did rather extensive damage to the Arby’s float, which was made of antique crockery. She leaned into Carlos and pointed at his voter application. “Hey, is that gum?” she asked, pointing to the edge._ _

__“You need to answer our questions,” Carlos insisted._ _

__The mayor lifted her arm, as if to strike. A stoat fell out of her sleeve, dropping to the floor and scurrying off. Watching from the audience, Cecil cringed._ _

__“You don't fool me, lady!” shouted a paunchy, balding man in a tutu who had just appeared onstage in a pouf of periwinkle smoke, clutching the latest issue of _TV Guide_ magazine._ _

__“The Tiny Purple Fairy!” exclaimed Cecil, who really needed to cool it on his habit of narrating events._ _

__“You’re not da Mayor! You’re dat asshole, da Glow Cloud!” raved the Tiny Purple Fairy._ _

__Mayor Winchell suddenly began to smoke and glow in a most un-mayoral fashion. The Tiny Purple Fairy bonked her on the head with his _TV Guide_ and, to the astonishment of the gathered Night Vale citizens, she toppled over, and a great amount of purple smoke began to emit from her eyes, nose and mouth. The vapor reassembled above her, and it was, indeed, none other than the mighty Glow Cloud._ _

__“I’ll get you, you jerk!” vowed the Tiny Purple Fairy, as he and the Glow Cloud suddenly began to wrestle. They grappled for a while, tumbling off the dais, raising dust and periwinkle smoke._ _

__“Wow, why does he hate the Glow Cloud so much?” asked Carlos, who had hopped back down from the dais when the melee started._ _

__“No clue,” said Cecil. “But you know how people get petty.”_ _

__“But they weren’t people: one was a supernatural being, and the other an amorphous patch of condensation!”_ _

__“Still,” said Cecil as the Tiny Purple Fairy and the mighty Glow Cloud grunted and struggled as the crowd watched in awe. At one point, the Glow Cloud managed to toss the Tiny Purple Fairy right through a saloon window, which was especially interesting as there was no saloon in the middle of Main Street._ _

__Teddy Williams, who was a doctor (as all bowling alley owners must be) had run out of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex to check on the semi-conscious Mayor Winchell. “The mayor is all right!” he announced to general cheers from the gathered crowd as the mayor stood up and dusted herself off._ _

__“Yes,” said Mayor Winchell, now coming to stand behind the podium. “I am no longer being controlled by the mighty Glow Cloud.”_ _

__There were more cheers. And even some hoots._ _

__“Now I am released from my possession!”_ _

__The crowd whooped and whistled and applauded._ _

__“Now ... I am free to wreck my revenge on Night Vale!” She thereupon grew up several stories tall, and spouted some hideous (if a bit hyperbolic) fangs._ _

__Oh, and she also belched radioactive fire._ _

__The citizenry, which had up until that time been in a generally good mood, screamed and tried to flee._ _

__“Wait, the mayor is a giant, rampaging kaiju?” asked Cecil._ _

__“Well, of course she is a kaiju,” sniffed Trish Hidge. “Like all mayors, she is able to turn into a legendary radioactive monster, fly, or veto City Council resolutions that have received less than two thirds of the vote. I have all the same powers,” she bragged._ _

__“Watch out!” yelled Carlos, but just then, Trish, who was standing directly underneath the rampaging mayor, was crushed by Mayor Winchell's tremendous foot._ _

__Cecil winced. Carlos grabbed him and threw him underneath the dais in order to evade the mayor’s trampling size 86 Manolo Blahniks and the stampeding crowd of Night Vale citizens and likely voters. “I’ll never get to pick up my dry cleaning now,” Cecil wailed._ _

__At that exact moment, when all seemed lost, the Dr. Pepper float rumbled to the head of the parade, and the tiny citizens from underneath the pin retrieval area of lane five tossed several Cheesy Mints into the opening of the giant soda bottle depicted by flower petals and remaindered munitions._ _

__The bottle produced a gurgling geyser, which managed to knock over the now gargantuan, rampaging mayor, quenching her fiery breath. She fell with a great crash, taking out a good twenty percent of the business district of downtown Night Vale with her._ _

__“Cecil,” said Carlos worriedly, “we need to get out of here!”_ _

__“Didn’t the tiny people defeat her?” asked Cecil, who, despite being scared, was really having a rather wonderful time under the dais being held in Carlos’s strong, laboratory-tested arms._ _

__“Cecil, don’t you realize, you can’t defeat a rampaging kaiju politician with high fructose corn syrup-sweetened soda alone! It’s scientifically impossible! Or at least, extremely unlikely. Which is essentially the same thing.”_ _

__As if in confirmation of Carlos's hypothesis, the mayor suddenly bolted upright and smashed the Diet Dr. Pepper float with one blow of her scaly tail, scattering the tiny citizens from beneath the bowling alley in all directions._ _

__Cecil considered their options. “Carlos, you know what that means? If we need diet soda, we’ve got to get across the street to Ralphs!”_ _

__Cecil and Carlos cautiously crawled out from underneath the platform and, careful not to alert Mayor Winchell, who was grunting and howling and picking her teeth with the Arby’s sign, scurried across the road to Ralphs grocery store, accompanied by the two interns who hadn’t been sucked into the void._ _

__“You two go to the candy, snacks and arcane symbols aisle and get some Cheesy Mints,” Carlos told the interns. “Come, Cecil, we’ll grab some Diet Dr. Pepper. Quickly, to the beverage and discounted sample size aisle!”_ _

__The two men sprinted across the well-stocked grocery store, only to encounter a horrible sight in the beverage and discount aisle: the City Council. Sadly enough, its members had chosen this exact moment to morph into flesh-eating zombies and run amok all over Night Vale._ _

__Carlos and Cecil skidded to a halt and then carefully backed around the end cap to spy at the council members._ _

__“Cecil, I don't believe this! Your City Council members are flesh-eating zombies?” asked Carlos._ _

__Cecil shrugged. “Well, it was kind of an eligibility requirement that during times of emergency, they would morph into the undead. It dates back to the fourteenth century.”_ _

__Carlos frowned._ _

__“Well, I _warned_ you our laws were arcane.”_ _

__“Not another unexplained political phenomenon!” groused Carlos. “I've still got Dr. Pepper in my hair.”_ _

__“Oh, no!” wailed Cecil as a deranged City Councilman lurched around the end cap and charged right towards him. Carlos beaned the undead politician over the head with a whirligig (it was really cute, as it had a sailboat and a little windmill) and he staggered off._ _

__“Where did you get that whirligig?” inquired Cecil._ _

__“A scientist is always prepared!” Carlos told him. “It's part of being a scientist. Now, we need to figure out how to fend them off. We need the diet Dr. Pepper in that aisle to defeat the mayor!”_ _

__Just then several school children, hooting war cries, descended on the Ralphs. They rushed the City Council members, wielding library cards that had been whittled to sharp points, and razor-sharp reading lists. Quick-thinking Tamika Flynn, who had managed to elude her guards during the confusion, had unleashed her fellow Summer Reading Program veterans from the razor wire cage. They set upon the City Council. The carnage was terrible._ _

__“We need those Cheesy Mints!” said Carlos as he and Cecil gathered soda bottles. “Where are your interns?”_ _

__As if in answer to his question, the other intern and the _other_ other intern came into view, trailing a couple of the City Council members. The councilmen were both beaming, and wearing flower crowns._ _

__“Guys, good news!” said the _other_ other intern. “We found out you can subdue rampaging zombie councilmen with flower crowns.”_ _

__“That was good thinking!” said Carlos, who, as a scientist, esteemed thinking. “But where are the Cheesy Mints?”_ _

__“Um, that's the bad news,” confessed the other other intern. One of the City Councilmen belched, and the air was permeated by the distinct odor of minty aged cheese. “See, by the time we got them rounded up, they'd gobbled up all the Cheesy Mints, as well as the HoHos and most of the licorice whips.” The Councilman grinned, showing black, licorice-stained teeth._ _

__There was a scream, and two of the Summer Reading Program members descended on the City Council members, eviscerating them where they stood._ _

__“You didn't need to do that,” Cecil sighed, viewing the mess._ _

__“Extra credit!” whooped the students, who ran off._ _

__“Since we no longer have Cheesy Mints as a substrate, we need another source of nucleation, and we need it now,” said Carlos, who was absently twirling his whirligig._ _

__The floor began to tremble. It was the very large but very stylish high heeled sling-backs of Mayor Winchell, tromping their way._ _

__“Carlos, it’s too late!” said Cecil._ _

__“I have a theory!” said Carlos, handing his two liter soda bottles off to Cecil and heading for the Lutes, Dulcimers, Balalaikas and Other Stringed Instruments aisle. He returned, tuning a banjo that had been marked 20% off, which was a very good deal._ _

__“Carlos, you can’t-“ sputtered a wide-eyed, horrified Cecil, who was still juggling soda bottles._ _

__“I must do what I must,” said Carlos. “There is no force on earth more powerful than a Hispaniolian epic ballad! If I don’t return, Cecil, please remember, I have a great fondness for you, which has no scientific basis.”_ _

__If this declaration of affection was a little disappointing to Cecil, Carlos swiftly made it up by pulling Cecil close and giving him a quick kiss. The pressure from his embrace dislodged a few bottle caps, causing several of the Diet Dr. Pepper bottles he was holding to produce little geysers as Cecil stood in the middle of the soda aisle, more than a bit dazed._ _

__And then, with a gleam in his eyes, Carlos boldly strode out to the front of the store, right in front of Mayor Winchell._ _

__“This is an epic ballad about a young maiden who forgot to put out her recycling bins on a Tuesday,” he explained in a hushed voice, and then began to sing._ _

_____Marianela, mira el mapa_  
El mapa es verde y azul.  
Voy a visitar mi amigo.  
Penso visitar mi amigo.  
Estoy pensando en visitar mi amigo.  
La fuente es linda…. 

__As Cecil and the interns watched in amazement, the mayor halted in her Blahniks, seemingly mesmerized by the epic ballad of love, loss, and colored newsprint._ _

__“She seems tranquil for the moment,” said the _other_ other intern, looking up in astonishment while the other intern started weaving a very large flower crown. “Mesmerized by the soulful balladry. But what about when the song ends?”_ _

__“Oh, these things tend to go on,” sighed Cecil, looking at his watch and wondering if his dry cleaners had survived the melee, and if so, if it was still open._ _

__The giant mayor stood, spellbound, a giant tear forming in her eye as Carlos sang of the young maiden’s great-uncle, who had once misplaced the race car from his Monopoly set. But just as Mayor Winchell was grabbing at the tarp that had been draped over a set of lumber to use as a giant handkerchief, Carlos’s fingers, as they had done before when Cecil watched him play, began as if all on their own to speed their picking, and suddenly his song had lurched from a dirge to a lilt._ _

__“Oh no!” said Cecil. “Carlos, the mayor is getting agitated! You need to go back to your lament.”_ _

__“I can’t help it!” wailed Cecil, who was nodding his head in time to the bouncing tune. The mayor threw down her improvised handkerchief and emitted a frustrated roar._ _

__“Oh, there you are!” said the _other_ other intern, and suddenly both interns were waving happily towards something up the sky._ _

__“Carlos, look! It’s our intern!” said Cecil called out to Carlos._ _

__“The one who was sucked into the void?” asked Carlos._ _

__“Yes, _that one_!”_ _

__“Neat!” said Carlos, who, despite his peril, was much enjoying the bouncing tune he was plucking._ _

__From across dimensions, the intern smiled and waved at everybody. And then he reached out and grasped a still squalling Mayor Winchell by her hair, wrenching her back into the infinite vortex with him. She was sucked away, leaving nothing but a very big, very fashionable slingback in her wake._ _

__“Well, that was a narrow escape,” said Carlos as the dust settled. The _other_ other intern gifted him with a lovely flower bracelet._ _

__To Cecil's surprise, the Glow Cloud came ambling up (as much as an amorphous vapor may be said to amble) arm in arm with the Tiny Purple Fairy, who had a black eye and was missing a couple of his front teeth._ _

__“I thought you guys despised each other,” said Cecil._ _

__“Aw, dat was all nothin',” the Tiny Purple Fairy assured him. “Water under da bridge.”_ _

__“Well, that's good,” said Cecil._ _

__“We're gonna hit da town, go drinkin'. You wanna come with?”_ _

__Carlos tapped Cecil on the shoulder. The Night Vale survivors had begun to pick their way out of the rubble, and were looking around in confusion. “Cecil,” Carlos told him. “I think you are needed here now.”_ _

__Cecil politely declined, and the Tiny Purple Fairy and the Glow Cloud whisked off, presumably to paint the town (or what was left of it) in a bright shade of periwinkle._ _

__Wiping the worst of the diet soda and City Council zombie gore off his shirt, Cecil strode over to what was left of the podium. After tapping the microphone, he addressed the shocked and disoriented city. “My fellow citizens of Night Vale. The carnage has been terrible, but in the end, the beings that menaced us, as well as only a few innocent bystanders (and really, who among us is innocent) have been defeated by our eagle-eyed citizens.”_ _

__Some cautious cheers went up._ _

__“Unfortunately, due to the mayor, Pamela Winchell, having been sucked into an infinite void; and the massive casualties amongst the City Council, Night Vale finds itself without a viable form of government, and this just before an important election.”_ _

__The _other_ other intern dashed up to the podium and handed Cecil a report._ _

__“Citizens, I’ve just been handed this item. ‘TNY PPL NDR LN FV F BWLNG LLY NMNT TMKA FLYNN FR CHLD KNG.’” Indeed, a wave of the tiny people from city beneath the bowling alley took up a very high pitched cheer. “It looks like our height impaired friends would like none other than Tamika Flynn to serve as our interim leader!”_ _

__As the cheers went up, Tamika shuffled to the front of the crowd. She popped out her iPod, and several people explained what had been going on. “Oh, yeah, like, I could totally do that,” she mumbled before going back to cleaning blood from her library card._ _

__“Well, it looks like all's well,” Carlos told Cecil._ _

__“No, there is one more thing! Acting Mayor Flynn, this man wants to register to vote!” said Cecil, indicating Carlos._ _

__Tamika popped her gum. “'Kay,” she said. Wiping the bloodstains from her hands, she grabbed a colorful marker and signed Carlos's voter registration form, dotting the “i” in her name with a little heart. And then, just for good measure, she stowed her own wad of gum on the edge of the form._ _

__

__“Do you think the other intern will make me one of those too?” asked Carlos some days later, as Cecil sat on his bed admiring his flower ring._ _

__“The one who wasn't sucked into the void along with the mayor?” Cecil asked distractedly. Carlos set his whirligig aside and drew nearer. Reaching up, Cecil winced as he plucked out one of his own hairs from his head, offering it to Carlos, who smiled mysteriously and wrapped it around his ring finger. It showed pale against Carlos's dark skin._ _

__“I’ve just gotten word that _The Scientific Journal of Science_ accepted my abstract about bowling patterns among the Nimerigar,” Carlos confessed excitedly, his oaky voice caramel-tinged with pride._ _

__Cecil smiled. “And I got my dry cleaning back.” He looked down at his sweater vest. But then his forehead creased. “Carlos. Does this mean you'll be attending the International  
Scientific Conference in Svitz?”_ _

__“Yes!”_ _

__“Oh.” Cecil dragged a hand across the bedspread, which was decorated with little test tubes and teensy beakers. “Well,” he sighed dejectedly. “I'll miss you.”_ _

__“You won't,” said Carlos. “Not if you come with me.”_ _

__Cecil smiled up at him, his third eye blown wide with happiness accompanied by not a small grain of lust._ _

__“What should we do now?” asked Carlos, his voice soft, fingers brushing Cecil's clean sweater vest. “To celebrate our respective achievements?”_ _

__“I have some ideas,” Cecil told him. He reached out and grabbed Carlos's lab coat lapels, tugging him nearer, so Carlos stood between his legs._ _

__Carlos leaned over and, very gently, pressed his lips to Cecil's forehead. Cecil pulled him downwards, and they kissed. There may have been some tongue involved, and Cecil definitely got the sense of rolling down a _very_ steep hill with his beloved scientist._ _

__Cecil scooted backwards on the bed, and Carlos climbed up to straddle his thighs, slowly tugging Cecil's lovely sparkling clean sweater vest off over his head. Carlos unthinkingly wadded it up and tossed it into a corner. Cecil was about to protest, but then Carlos slid a cool, dark hand on Cecil's chest, and Cecil arched back, shuddering at his touch, while the tattoo marks on his chest writhed._ _

__“This reminds me of one of the songs of my people,” murmured Carlos, who was happily nibbling on Cecil's earlobe._ _

__“Really?” whispered Cecil._ _

__To Cecil's utter disappointment, Carlos suddenly pushed back, his eyes bright. “Yes! It's the tragic story of a young maiden who let the top of her soda bottle fall onto the ground.” Carlos made to get up off the bed, reaching for his banjo. “Would you like to hear it?” he asked._ _

__Carlos found himself suddenly yanked back down by Cecil. He was on top of Cecil now, nearly nose to nose with him, Cecil's hands gripping tightly on his lab coat lapels, eyes boring into him._ _

__“No,” Cecil said definitively._ _

__Carlos smiled, perfect teeth all in alignment, and Cecil pulled him nearer._ _

__“Perhaps then I will write a new epic ballad,” Carlos was heard to murmur. “All about you.”_ _

__Somewhere, gathered around the monitors to their hidden video cameras, a large group of Sheriff's secret policemen chorused, “Awwww!”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn’t obvious, Carlos’s songs are all just nonsense Spanish, pasted together with lines gleaned from elementary textbooks. Also, I totally made up an utterly ridiculous backstory for Carlos. The little people from under the bowling alley, believe it or not, are loosely based on the Native American legend of the Nimerigar, who were supposed to be tiny but fierce warriors.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll have the rest of this up on Sunday. We have house guests so things are kind of hectic.


End file.
